Le Noble Enfui
by Wayward Owl
Summary: Monique Olympe, the youngest of Marquis de Montcalm's children, has always considered herself to be the black sheep of the family. Ignored by her mother, bullied by her siblings and abandoned by her father, she does whatever she can to stand out and gain some sort of acknowledgement. That dangerous desire takes her to America. And to a certain disgraced Huron chief. (MaguaxOC slow)
1. Lonely Lilac

IMPORTANT – READ – This is an experimental character type for me. Usually (as I'm sure you've notice) I tend to favour the emotionally/intellectually strong female heroine types. However, I wanted to start with a character and really develop them through adversity and conflict. Also thought I'd give this one a bit of a different spin. **Update on the Fox and the Robin –** it will be updated soon! The chapter has turned out bigger than I thought. I will probably post it up by the end of the week…or next week (latest).

Another note – there are a lot of names! I have included a character reference (for myself too!)

Character information:

Father – Marquis Louis-Joseph de Montcalm born 1712 (age 45) + Mother - Angelique Louise Talon du Boulay born 1717 (age 40)

Children – O= alive / **X = deceased**

Louis-Gaston de Montcalm – O – Born 1732 (age 25)

Francois-Manuel de Montcalm – O – Born 1734 (age 23)

 **Jean- Charles de Montcalm – X – Born 1734 - Died 1757 (age 23)**

 **Louis-Alix de Montcalm – X – Born 1733 – died 1738 (age 5)**

Marie Renee de Moncalm – O – Born 1735 (age 22)

 **Giselle Antoinette de Moncalm - X – Born 1735- Died 1736 (age 1)**

Jocelyn Daphne de Montcalm – O – Born 1736 (age 21)

 **Charlot Odette Montcalm – X – Born 1737 - Died 1752 (age 15)**

Monique Olympe de Montcalm – O – Born 1738 (age 19)

* * *

February, 1757

Chateau de Candiac, near Nimes, Southern France.

An Englishman once said, 'Beauty is power, a smile is its sword'.

These were words Monique Olympe de Montcalm lived by. They were also the words she often muttered to herself during her morning beauty rituals. Sat in front of her vanity mirror, Olympe gazed deeply at her reflection, scrutinizing herself in fanatic detail. As usual, she started from the top and scanned her way down.

Despite courtly fashions dictating otherwise, Olympe kept her lustrous black curls natural; she pointedly refused to wear any powdered wig or false hair tied in with her own. She was still traumatised by her first experience with her mother's personal coiffeurs. It was such a daunting experience for a little seven-year-old, having grown attendants brushing and pulling at her hair, mixing in a strange whitish powder which made her scalp burn and blister. She cried, screamed and thrashed, promptly fleeing the room, her hair half-finished and stained an ugly dark grey. She refused to leave her room until the coiffeur was excused from service. Her sisters, Renee and Daphne, had teased her mercilessly about it; claiming they would have to shave her head like a redskin to let the natural colour grow back. Thankful, it was not true. After some vigorous scrubbing, the acidic powder finally washed out. Ever since, Olympe refused to have let anyone -aside from her personal matron- style her hair. Even then, her dark curls were only to be set in soft curls, delicately twisted and pinned into an arrangement of rows across the front and top of her head. The length at the back was braided and tied up with silken ribbons.

Olympe continued to evaluate herself; her porcelain skin was layered with thick white foundation, a common practice for any noble lady of France. Rouge was subtly smudged around her eyes and cheeks; to finish off, her lips were carefully painted with a dark, cherry red (a colour mixture of her own creation). Its mauve shade accented the depths of her self-loved eyes. Olympe had been born with the most peculiar eyes. They were a pale blue and given the right light, one could dare say they were even the faintest shade of lilac. They were much like her father's; they were about the only thing she inherited from him.

She then frowned; the reflection in the mirror doing the same.

Monique Olympe wasn't the most intellectual of Marquis de Montcalm's daughters, she certainly wasn't the most gifted; but by God, she was the most beautiful. In her most recent visit to the court of Versailles, The King himself, The Beloved Louis XV, had fleetingly dubbed her La Petite Beauté. A title which many would agree with. Even as a newborn babe, Olympe was adored. Her birth had been used as a grand excuse for much celebration and festivities; she was the youngest of the de Montcalm children after all and the last destined to be born. The birth had been practically taxing on Madame Angelique Louise de Montcalm; despite her husband's amorous devotion to her, doctors had advised against any future conceptions. Because of this, and the recent death of one of their other children, Olympe had been treasured and spoilt above all others; numerous guests came to convey their good wishes. Even the famed Madame de Pompadour, retired chief mistress to King Louis XV, had been invited to the extravagant procession. It had truly been a momentous affair. But Olympe learnt very early on that even the sunsets in paradise. The novelty of her birth soon faded and Olympe was soon passed into the care of one of the matrons at the chateau; her mother simply couldn't cope with her constant crying. None of her previous children had caused such fuss; Madame de Montcalm was certain the child was struck by some affliction, why else would the child cry so much in her presence? Her father had managed no better; as much as he loved all his children, he considered Olympe to be a most troublesome and unruly child. She was never a shy child, as a toddler she was perspective enough to gauge her status amongst the household. Her earliest memory was running around the chateau as a toddler; when she came upon any servants or guests, she would outstretch her hand in expectation, awaiting a kiss in greetings. Though her brothers found such antics amusing, her father seemed less than impressed. In his opinion, respectable French women -even his own daughters- were to have some degree of humility. He became increasingly distressed as Olympe grew older, she grew more demanding, vying for his undisputed affections, even when his attention was desperately called for elsewhere. The King would soon send him on yet another campaign in America, accompanied by none other than his own three sons; he had to ensure they fully prepared for the horrors of war. The de Montcalm patriarch had already lost one son, Alix, God rest his soul. He did not want to lose another. The needs and wants of his difficult daughter would have to wait.

Olympe seemed to resign herself to this fact. As she grew into womanhood, she found she had to adapt herself and become more introverted; it was the only way to cope with the mundane life of luxury she was living. Yet with little to occupy her attention, Olympe found herself actively seeking out conflict. Like any child, ignored and abandoned, Olympe sought out some form of interaction; even if it was initially negative. In her fashionable, courtly heels, she pitter-pattered her way into her sister's chambers -without so much as a knock on the door. Marie Renee was the eldest of the de Montcalm sisters; she was also the most scholarly, with ambitions of one day opening her own salon like Madame de Pompadour's in Étiolles. Matters of the mind utterly fascinated Renee; she consumed editions of Voltaire's work with ravenous enthusiasm. Books and manuscripts of every subject and genre filled her personal library. She had more pieces of literature than she did articles of dresses. Olympe never understood the appeal. Dusty, old books had never really interested her; why sit and read when you could do something much more practical? It was an argument the sisters often found themselves debating, on numerous occasions, and as always, it would end the same; Olympe would storm off in a huff and Renee would laugh in apparent victory. Renee readied herself for yet another repeat, hoping it would be a quick hostile exchange; she had no interest in dealing her little sister so early in the morning.

"Ah, my little sister. Good morning." Renee was laid back, reclining by the window of her apartment. She was dressed in a dusky, salmon, pink frock adorned with ruffles. Coupled with her powdered white, curled hair and equally pale skin, Renee looked like a sickly sinister; at least, that's what Olympe thought -silently to herself-. Her sister didn't overly concern herself with the latest fashion crazes, falling in and out of courtly favour. It was her way of standing out in society's forever changing masses; she fully intended to exercise the liberty of free will (one of Voltaire's philosophical notions). Olympe rolled her eyes, waiting for Renee to fully acknowledge her. Her elder sister may be enlightened, but dear Lord, she was still as rude as a common, farm sow.

Finally, dark, almond eyes glanced up from the pages of her book of which her nose was currently buried in. "Finally gracing us with your rapturous presence, I see."

Olympe squared back her shoulders, seeming to prepare herself for this self-imposed altercation. "As the sun must rise, so too must I, dear sister." Olympe did not let the verbal barbs bother her; at least, she was far used to them now to openly show it. Instead, she assumed her haughty indifference and sauntered through the apartment, her eyes causally scanning over the numerous books she had seen before.

She then looked back at Renee, who was watching patiently her, no doubt waiting for more development in her initial exchange. Olympe felt obliged to ask, "Whatever are you reading now?"

Renee closed the book, looking at the front cover with an expression of thoughtfulness, "Just a bit of light reading. History of the Dragon; it contains the actions of Genevieve Premoy. A rather interesting read, I must say." Renee then glanced at Olympe, with a look of obvious disappointment. "Nothing that would interest you, I'm sure."

Olympe ignored her with practiced ease. Renee was trying yet again to bait her with subtle jabs; she always flaunted her knowledge when she could, even over her younger sister. Olympe did not raise to the bait, instead she cantered her head at the book, feigning interest. "Genevieve who? I've never heard of her."

Renee eyes twinkled as she shook her head, grinning to herself like a cheshire cat, "Why am I not surprised? Such tragedy. My little sister, all beauty, but sadly, no brains."

The nerve in Olympe's cheek twitched, but was quickly concealed in a tight lipped smile. "Careful, Renee. Jealousy is unbecoming. It adds -even more- wrinkles." She was silently delighted when she saw the elder de Montcalm lady frown. It seemed she had scored a point in this game of verbal fencing. Nevertheless, Renee seemed determined to retaliate.

"Here, enlighten yourself." Renee tossed the book onto a nearby tea table, uncaring if it landed on target or not. She then gestured her away, selecting yet another book from the pile she had formed beside her as she did so. "Now, shoo. You are far to taxing to entertain this early in the morning."

Olympe scoffed, snatching the book the table as if to prove some point. She'd show her sister; she'd read the stupid book just to spite her…later. When she had less better things to do. With a childish huff, Olympe stormed out. Not that her sister noticed; Renee just went back to reading. As much as Olympe hated to admit it, at least Renee had given her some sort of short lived interaction. Daphne was far less hospitable. Despite this, Olympe immediately made her way to Daphne's apartments, hopefully that perhaps her sister could offer some form of entertainment.

Jocelyn Daphne was Olympe's second eldest sister; a musical prodigy, destined the grace all the great music halls of Europe. She learnt how to play the piano before Olympe was even born, and had played in the presence of Queen consort Marie Leszczyńska on numerous occasions. As soon as Daphne mastered one instrument, she moved onto another. She was currently practicing a marvellously, oversized instrument called a viola da gamba, originally of Spanish origin. Ever since she heard Princess Anne Henriette had begun playing it, Daphne had been determined to attempt it as well. It was proving to be more challenging than she had first anticipated; it required more hours of practice than any other instrument she had previously entertained. But Daphne was admirably rising to the challenge.

Strutting down the polished marble halls of the west wing, Olympe heard the melodious tune of the viola before she even reached her sister's private apartments. She slowed her heeled steps for a moment, knowing it would throw off Daphne's tempo. Despite the early hour, Daphne was reverently practicing like the dutiful, seasoned musician she wished to become. Olympe took a moment to listen; the dozy melody was surprisingly soothing despite its rapid pace. She truly did think her sister was talented, though she'd never openly admit it -her sister was arrogant enough, she didn't need any extra boosts to her ego-. Oh, but how Olympe wished she could have been the gifted one. True, Olympe was beautiful, and she knew it well, but her sister was truly blessed; she could create beauty with the mere movements of her fingers. Her talent would only grow with age, not wither and wrinkle.

As always, Olympe became restless simply waiting out in the hall like timid child. She finally brokered Daphne's room with a desperate smile, frantically trying to think of some sort of excuse for bothering her, "Daphne! Would you like to play hide and seek in the gardens?"

Daphne didn't miss a beat plucking at the fine musical strings, though her delicate, pixie like nose wrinkled in clear annoyance. "Hide and seek? In the winter? Honestly, Olympe, you're not a child anymore. Whatever would people say if they knew the daughters of Marquis de Montcalm were running around in the wilds of the garden like savages? We'd be the laughing stock of France." She hadn't even looked up from her music book, the intense look of focus unwavering. "Now go away. I have a recital at Versailles coming up. It must be perfect."

Olympe left the room as quickly as she had entered, trying not to look so crestfallen, "Fine. You're no fun anyway."

There was really one other person she could seek out. She had already been warned it was unsightly for her to be seen in friendly company of servants; the only other person she could talk to in the chateau was her mother.

He deranged, deluded mother.

She hadn't seen her mother since last week; and for good reason. Since her husband's deployment to America in 1754, coupled with the death of her third son, Jean-Claude, Madame Angelique had slowly begun to decline, mentally and emotionally. Sometimes she refused to leave her chambers, lacking the sheer motivation to leave her bed at all. Shyly at first, Olympe poked her head into her mother's private chambers. The once bright, extravagant room was shrouded in darkness; the curtains were still drawn, shutting out the natural light. Given the shattered vase and scattered flowers on the floor, Olympe assumed the servants had visited earlier; Madame Angelique had promptly diminished them, none too subtly. Olympe stayed beside the door for a moment, ready to take cover if need be.

"Mother…"

Originally, Olympe had hoped, by some miracle of God, she could lift her mother's spirits and distract her from her usual dreary demeanour. She dared to dream her mother may even prove to be more fruitful company because of it.

There was a moment of silence, for a moment Olympe wasn't even sure if her mother had heard her. But then there were sounds of movement; the bed covers shifted to one side, "Odette, my little swan, is that you?"

Olympe bristled instantly, biting the inside of her cheek. That name; how she hated that name. Charlotte Odette; yet another one of her sisters. It had been no secret Odette had been their mother's favourite. And even in death, she was still the favourite. Odette had been a gentle, sweet natured girl. She behaved more like a doll than an actual daughter; rarely did she ever stray from her mother's side. That was, until she was struck by sickness.

Olympe yet again had to remind her mother, none to gently. "Odette passed away, five years ago. Remember?" She then took a tentative step forward, "It's me, Monique Olympe."

"Oh…" The belated woman didn't even try to hide her disappointment.

Odette had been a year older than Olympe, both had shared the same colour hair and enchanting eyes. They had been so close in appearance; many often mistook for twins. Their own, poor mother often confused one with the other; nevertheless, it didn't soften the sting of the mistake. Olympe wasn't sure if it was hysteria or pure alcohol which addled her mother's mind. A lifetime of luxury and prestige had not prepared her the trauma of motherhood. By age fifteen she had been married and pregnant with her first son, Louis-Gaston. Now in her early forties, she had birthed nine children; only five now survived into adulthood. Her two eldest sons, Louis-Gaston and Francois-Manuel currently served as military officers with their father. Her three daughters, Marie-Renee, Charlotte Odette and Monique Olympe lived in the chateau with her, though Marie-Renee was soon to be married. Renee's soon to be husband was also currently station in America, leading in the war effort as an artillery commander.

Jean-Claude, Manuel's twin brother, had been killed recently in the line of duty. King Louis XV had been kind enough to arrange for his body to be brought back for burial; he assured his favourite lieutenant general that a son of France deserved to be buried in the soil of his homeland. The Marquis de Montcalm had found the gesture somewhat touching, it not slightly morbid; however, this was not the first son he had lost. Louis-Alix, at the tender age of five, had died in a riding accident; the Marquis de Montcalm tackled his grief by throwing himself deeper into his military campaigns overseas. It was exactly what he had done previously with Giselle-Antoinette, who had died the year before; only a year old at the time of her passing, she had always been a sickly child. She went in her sleep, which offered some small comfort to Madame Angelique. Yet it was Odette's death that seemed to have devastated Madame Angelique the most. Now the bereaved mother spent most of days in her private chambers, shut away from the world. She eased her grief with sweet wine and renewed it with reminiscing of bitter memories. It was a never ending circle. Olympe would never admit it but she secretly envied her deceased siblings. They held a reserved place in their parents' hearts, one that could never to be moved or altered.

Spite laced the young woman's tone, ridicule masking her pain, "Honestly, you call yourself a mother." She watched as the groggy woman swayed, sitting up from the bed. It didn't even look like she had bothered to change her nightshift since the last time Olympe visited.

The de Montcalm matriarch seemed to be recovering from her latest alcoholic endeavours. She pinched the bridge of her nose, as if trying to chase away the troublesome aftermath which lingered. "What do you want, darling? Mother has a headache."

Stepping closer, Olympe brandished the strips of ribbons in her hand, as if expecting her mother to notice them despite the poor light. "Put ribbons in my hair."

Exasperation laced Madame Angelique's tone, "Darling, we have servants to do that." She wasn't even addressing Olympe in her direction. Instead, her head was slumped aside, facing away from the door.

Olympe realised her mother was just staring blankly ahead, into the darkest corner of the room. She stormed forward, almost desperately.

"But I want you to do it!" Correcting herself, she then quickly added, "You always tie them better."

Truth be told, her matronly servant Marie had already affixed the ribbons perfectly well this morning, as she always did. Olympe had just ripped them out upon making her way to her mother's personal chambers. She was just desperate to keep her mother's attention, anyway she could; her sisters hadn't been as tolerant as she had hoped. Usually they humoured her for longer than they did this morning. All she received from her sisters this morning was unwelcomed wishes and a measly little book.

So Olympe was determined to stay with her mother, even if just for a moment longer.

Madame Angelique finally sighed, heavy with resolution. Apparently, she vaguely recognised the stubbornness in her youngest daughter's tone. "Very well." She beckoned her over to the bed, patting the soft, absent surface.

Olympe hurried to her mother's side, grinning like a fool. It seemed her ploy at worked. They sat in silence for some time. Madame Angelique's technique was clumsy. She didn't even use a brush; she only ran her fingers through Olympe's hair, making uneven braids and tying them with unsecure bows. And though she absently pulled on her daughter's hair at times, Olympe endured it. It had been the longest she had been in her mother's presence in days. In some way, it was almost soothing. From her position on the bed, Olympe scrutinized the faint details of the room. Furniture had been moved into odd locations, clothes were scattered on the floor. Only the furnishings on the walls were left unchanged. Most of the features were commissioned portraits; her mother had been an avid patron of the famed painter Maurice Quentin de La Tour. He was a gifted artist, who always managed to capture the delicacies of features. On one the walls -the very one Madame Angelique has been staring at- hung the most recent addition to the wall; a full length portrait of her husband, Marquis de Montcalm, in full military service dress. De La Tour had been generous in his depiction; de Montcalm looked like a handsome man of youth, as oppose to the middle aged, war weary general he truly was.

With her eyes now adjusted to the darkness of the room, Olympe couldn't help but admire the painting and wonder aloud, "When is father coming home?"

Her mother paused for a moment, letting the a few stray curls escape her through her fingers, "We had talked about this, darling. Your father will be home when this nasty business in America is finally over."

Ever accustomed to getting whatever she wanted -most of the time-, Olympe pouted, "I want him home now."

Her mother only scoffed at her usual antics. "Honestly, Olympe, don't be so selfish. Your father is serving in his Majesty's army. He's a commander now, a very important officer."

"But I miss him."

"Well, you're not the only one!" Her mother suddenly pushed her off the bed and flung herself back under the covers, wailing into one of the pillows. She cried desperately for her husband; her mood shifting violently. She began working herself into hysterics. "Oh, Joseph! My love!"

Olympe simply tugged viciously at the blankets, trying to rouse her, "Mother, you haven't finished doing my ribbons. Mother!"

"Marie!" Madame Angelique screeched, screaming at the top of her lungs. The sheer pitch blistered Olympe's ears. "Marie, get in here!"

The de Montcalm employed numerous servants; their wealth allowed the luxury. Before his departure to America, Marquis de Montcalm ensured there would always be servant stationed within the near vicinity of his beloved wife; he privately acknowledged that she by far needed more care than his children. Sure enough soft, yet hurried, pitter-patter feet could be heard hurrying down the hall. The portly matron -with caution- stopped short at the doorway, hoping to avoid any flying projectiles.

"Yes, Madame?" She tentatively poked her bonnet covered head around the door, trying to see what had upset the lady of the chateau so greatly. When her beady, greying eyes landed on Olympe, her brows creased with vexation.

Madame Angelique was blindly swatting Olympe away, her shrieking growing louder, "Get her out of my chambers. Children should never be in their mother's chambers! Get out! Get out!"

The short, withering matron quickly shuffled into the chamber, taking hold on Olympe's hand, "Come away now. Leave your mother to rest." Marie knew the sooner Madame Angelique was left alone, the sooner she would calm down. She had some small sympathy for the girl, but knew nothing productive could be done. Madame Angelique was an ill woman; there was no cure for her sickness.

Nevertheless, Olympe resisted. Tugging her hand free as they reached the doorway, she scowled, "No, I want to stay with my mother! Mother!"

"Young mistress, please-", Marie tried to plea with her, seeking to the unruly her in any way she could. "Come. We'll finish your ribbons."

But Olympe, none too gently, shoved the matron aside, "Go away! I didn't ask for _your_ help!" She then turned her blue-eyed gaze to the other servants who now congregated in the hallway, no doubt alerted to Madame Angelique's now constant wailing. She bristled at their judging, silent stares. "Leave me alone, all of you!" she spat, turning as vicious as her mother, "Useless! You're all useless!"

Olympe dashed out of the chateau, as fast as her heeled shoes would carry her. She ignored the chill still lingering in the morning air and kept running. She threw Renee's gift of a book aside, uncaring as in tumbled and skidded across the unblemished snow. Olympe only kept her uneven dash for a short time; she soon found herself panting, her heated breaths creating a visible mist. The gardens on the estate were vast; gated with well-trimmed hedges and neatly cut lawns -all now covered in a thick, pure blanket of snow-. The footsteps Olympe left were a tell-tale track of her flight. As always she halted when she reached the border of the woodlands. They had traditionally been the hunting grounds of the de Montcalm men; ever since she was toddler first exploring the chateau grounds, Olympe always hesitated entering its intimidating embrace. She wavered yet again, daring herself to break that cycle and explore the unknown.

But cowardice prevailed yet again; Olympe retreated in bashful indignation, seeking shelter under the nearest tree. Again, she found herself sat alone -isolated- under the great oak. It was nothing new; whenever she had a tantrum she would run away, never going further than the gardens of the estate. Every time, she silent hoped someone would come after her.

Even now, clothed only in her lilac frock -shivering-, Olympe remained where she was. Misplaced pride, or perhaps even stubbornness, kept her rooted to the cold ground. Much like the falling snowflakes, Olympe sat frozen. Waiting. Watching. Snowflakes came and went with the fickleness of thee wind, falling from the misted skies and gracefully cascading in a wintery dance, before softly coming to rest on the ground. But the beauty was fleeting; when Olympe stretched out her hand, the snowflakes would melt in her touch, stealing sips of her warmth with each flake.

Not even the snowflakes remained to keep her company. Olympe chuckled at the thought before dissolving yet again into a bout of tears. She was so absorbed in her misery; she didn't even notice the sounds of heavy footsteps coming towards her.

"Do stop crying, Olympe. Look, you've ruined your make up."

Olympe gave an unlady like chortle; surprised by the sudden deep voice. She looked up and instantly recognised the visitor.

"Manuel…"

She smiled, looking upon the handsome face of one of her older brothers.

He returned her smile, thought it grew into a half-hearted grin, "Olympe, you know you shouldn't cry….You look ever so ugly when you do. Just like mother."

She playfully slapped his arm at such, "Oh, don't tease, you horrid thing."

Manuel, in his good nature, merely chuckled. Though he teased her often, Manuel was the kindest of her siblings, perhaps even the most sensitive. Olympe couldn't help but notice Manuel was dressed in his service uniform; he looked rather handsome in it. But then again, he was naturally handsome man -like all the de Montcalm men-. His white overcoat, highlighted with drapes of navy blue, cut a rather dashing picture. Manuel shared many of Olympe's features; pale blue eyes and slick black hair -though his was often hidden under one of those ridiculous white powdered wigs. They shared a common resemblance missed by their other siblings. Claude, his twin, had shared the exact same. His death in the line of duty had deeply unsettled Manuel. Olympe could still see it in his tired, sunken looking eyes. Losing Claude was like losing half of his own soul. He soon found himself unable to fulfil his duties on the battlefield; he only wished to grieve. Given his useless state, Manuel had been allowed to escort his Claude's body back to France and lay him to rest. It had been a sad affair; Claude's funeral had been sombre, in the early morning during the dead of the January winter. Snowflakes had littered his grave like the flowers that were laid.

Perhaps that's why Manuel was walking about the gardens. The chateau held too many memories; the shadow of Claude's memory haunted him. Olympe could see it in his eyes. Like her, he came out into the cold to escape. But there was nowhere to truly run. So, they just sat there, under the snow covered oak, content in each other's company. Neither spoke for some time; there was a sense of understanding in their shared silence. Olympe knew Manuel never wanted to be a military officer; he wanted to be a painter, he wanted to travel to foreign lands and capture the experiences in canvas and oils. But their father opposed the very idea, insisting all his sons followed in his footsteps, carving the de Montcalm name across every battlefield fought in the name of France. Manuel, ever the dutiful and obedient son, yielded to his father. He hadn't picked up a paintbrush since he was deployed to America. The last thing he painted were miniature portraits of his family, gifted to his father. Despite Mariquis de Montcalm's slight disapproval, he kept them and took them with on his campaign. Olympe wondered where they were now. Her father had never struck her as a sentimental type, at least not openly. As always, appearances mattered more than reality.

Manuel eventually broke the silence with a reluctant declaration.

"They are sending me to America next month." He said it as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

Olympe took a moment to absorb the unfortunate news. To her, it sounded like a death sentence. She linked her arm with his, squeezing tightly, even though her fingers were already numb from the cold. "No, Manuel. You can't...Don't leave me too."

But her brother only absently dusted the snowflakes from her head. "The king has requested me personally." He then placed her officer's cap on her head, though it's sheer size caused it to tilt on a lopped side. It obscured him from her sight for a moment, as if he couldn't bear to look her in the eye as he delivered more news. "He wants me to take Claude's posting."

Olympe cantered the cap aside, cocking her brow in utter insolence, "Does he want you to jump into Claude's grave too?"

Manuel gave her a shadowed look of reproach, but continued, "It's not so bad, sister. I'll will be joining father and Gaston in New York. With the three Montcalm men, the British won't stand a chance."

Olympe, however, did not look convinced. Rather than argue with her -as he knew she was prone to doing it-, Manuel changed the subject. From his coat pocket, he retrieved a familiar, slight soggy, book. "By the way. I found this. Is it yours? Seemed a bit obscure to me, finding a book accosted so carelessly in the snow."

She gave a careless shrug, eyeing the book with some disappointment. "Renee gave it to me. It seems like such a bore; barely any pictures."

"You should never judge a book by its cover, dear little sister. Surely even you should know that." Manuel shook his head at his sister's usual childish antics. He surveyed the book with a degree of interest, despite its slightly damaged state. The author's name immediately drew his attention. "Genevieve Premoy? It's been a while since I've heard that name."

" _You've_ heard of her?" Olympe tried to hide her disbelief. Manuel was an artist at heart, more attentive to paintings and sculptures than printed texts and editions. He read far less than her.

Her brother gave her a slight nudge, as if offended by her tone. "There isn't a soldier in his Majesty's army who hasn't heard of Madame Premoy."

"What? Was she some kind of nurse?"

"No, no. Madame Premoy served as an officer in His Majesty's army."

"An officer?" Olympe blinked, letting the statement settle in. "But...she is a woman! How could she possibly manage that? It's impossible!"

The only women in war Olympe ever heard about were Cantinières. They prepared meals -aside from rations- for soldiers whilst out on campaign. Hardly a glamourous profession. Yet some did it for as long as thirty years, going onto active frontlines. Though, of course, they had to be married to the soldiers deploying. An unmarried woman travelling overseas to a warzone sounded inconceivable. Unrealistic. Exciting.

"Anything is possible, sister. We never know what we are truly capable of until we are challenged. We often find we are much stronger than we think." Despite her brother's youngish age, he had centred matured. She'd never heard such moving words; Olympe couldn't help but wonder if it was the war that changed him or the loss of his brother.

He pushed the cold, wet book back into her hands, despite her reluctance. "Read the book, it's quite good. Now come, much longer out here and we'll freeze to death."

The two finally withdrew from the shelter of the oak. The snow, for the moment, had cease though the chill in the air remained. As they slowly made their way back to the chateau, Manuel slung his officer's coat over her shoulders. He had found it rather amusing, seeing his little sister dressed in men's attire, even if it was just his overcoat and officer cap. Manuel even suggested it as a future masquerade costume. However, Olympe took offense to the notion; men's clothes looked utterly unflattering, so drab, lacking colours. Besides, surely she was too beautiful to be mistaken for a man…

That afternoon Olympe retired to her chambers. It wasn't even noon yet and she already felt exhausted from such taxing interactions. Her chamber maids received her with a fright, seeing her in such a state of disarray. They immediately prepped a bath and change of clothes, though Olympe had insisted she only wished to remain by the fire. After a disappointing start to the day, she had no desire to leave her chambers for the rest of the afternoon. She even had her meals brought to her, doubting there would be anyone actual present in the family's grand dining hall. After she had dismissed her chamber maids, Olympe settled by the fire, uncaring if it would be deemed uncivilised. It would dry the book quicker, she reasoned.

With great effort, she attempted to read it. Admittedly, she did skip the odd few paragraphs, but the content was somewhat intriguing. She found the book was an autobiography, written by Madameselle Geneviève Prémoy herself. In vivid description, she went through the account of her life, how she had ran away from home and enlisted -in the guise of a man- in the regiment of the Prince of Condé in 1676. Olympe was shocked when she figured out that Madame Premoy would have only been 17 at the time. Two years younger than Olympe and this girl had been on battlefields fight alongside men. Without fear. Under the alias Chevalier Balthazard, she was eventually promoted and raised through the ranks through bravery in battle. Her gender was discovered when she was wounded during the Siege of Mons. When she was called to Versailles, she was received as a herp; Louis XIV made her honorary knight of the Order of St Louis. Though she was fired from the army, she was still allowed to keep her rank and pension.

Closing the book, Olympe sighed. Many would have sound the story inspiration, if not slightly extreme and radical. But all it did was remind Olympe of her shortcomings, yet again. She could never be so bold. So foolish. So daring. All she had was her beauty. She could never be as brave as Madame Premoy.

From the warm comfort of the fire, Olympe looked out of her apartment windows; she could see snow one again begin to fall, covering the footprints she and Manuel had left in the snow. It erased their presences in the gardens, turning that day into every other day.

Uneventful.

Pointless.

Meaningless.

* * *

3 weeks later

The Bout-du-Banc Salon, Paris, France.

France was now entering an age of enlightenment; salons were opening all over Paris. Artists, Poets and scholars congregated within these havens, discussing philosophies and ideas furthering their higher, human society. The salons acted like a sanctuary for those wishing to escape the ignorance of others. These gatherings were usually by request only, Renee had been ecstatic when she had been invited to The Bout-di-Banc, by none other than Jeanne Quinault, the current hostess. An accomplished writer and actress, Renee idolised her. Renee felt attending the Bout-du-Banc salon would introduce her to new scholars and academics, widening her own pool of knowledge and experience. It would also garner further connections and acquaintances in the widening social circles.

The last thing she wanted was to bring her little sister; Olympe. But like a temperamental torrent, she was insistent. Uncompromising. Forceful, even. She had insisted that Renee allow her to attend the salon, had screamed and cried until she was red in the face; but now Olympe regretted it. No one talked to her; at least no one interesting. She was not well known in the scholarly inner circles. She had no idols she wished to listen to, or fellow peers

The only form of entertainment came in the form of a heavily intoxicated soldier seated nearby. At first Olympe was utterly tickled by his slurring words; he sounded no better than a Scottish Highlander. Then again, she was no better. Since the start of the evening, Olympe had been nursing fire crystal glasses of wine. By the time she finally settled herself in a permanent spot, she could already feel the intoxicating warmth of the alcohol spread throughout her extremities. But clearly the soldier was more inebriated than her. He was gulping wine as if it was water.

How the soldier was invited, and why he was event present, puzzled Olympe. Though she didn't openly question it. For now, she just absently listened to his prattling, waiting for the next form of entertainment to walk by. He had offered his name multiple times, but the wine and disinterested robbed her of it.

Nevertheless, the soldier introduced himself, "Beaumont. Remy Louis Beaumont. Sergeant in his Majesty's artillery. Soon to be a dead man."

Olympe paused, her lips to the glass. She was rather caught off guard by such a dramatic statement. Perhaps the soldier was fond of theatrics?

She took the finishing sip of her drink before asking over the rim of her glass, "Oh, and why is that?"

"They're shipping me off to New York in a couple of days. I'll be rubbing elbows with savages and dodging British musket balls."

"savages?" Olympe then paused, "New York?"

"Yes. I'll be joining the artillery support division, under the command of Lieutenant General de Montcalm himself."

"How interesting…" she absently mumbled, gesturing for one of the servants to refill her glass. She had yet to reveal her name, or her relation to the Marquis de Montcalm. Sometimes the name hindered, rather than helped.

Remy only shrugged, taking generous swigs of his drink. "Not very. The Lieutenant General has hundreds of men under his command. He will be only in the company of his finest officers. And they'd never slum with any of lesser ranks."

Olympe zoned out for most of the Sergeant Beaumont's ramblings. His slurring was progressing increasingly worse. She could barely understand what he was saying. Every so often he would mumble of rifles and something about attacking front flanks with cannon fire. It made little sense of Olympe. She only offered nonsensical answers, vocalising her little interest without appearing to be ride. But the sergeant soon lost interest in talking about his military professional. It only reminded him of the inevitable. At some point, he slipped away into the crowds of people, leaving Olympe alone in the corner. She merely watched the world go by in a drunken blur, absently catching faint overtones of conversations and exchanges. The only thing which chased away some of the boredom was more wine. The sweetest in all of France. Nothing less.

The salon swing waned into the early hours of the morning; much to Olympe's annoyance, Renee was still deeply engrossed in conversation with some academic, she seemed utterly fixated with him controversial opinions. Their father would never tolerate such dynamic lines of thinking. Yet Olympe did not share the interest, she merely lingered in the doorways, strolling through corridors, impatiently waiting for her sister. She staggered slightly, the mixture of alcohol and heeled shoes utterly wreaked havoc on her balance. Dizziness slowly robbed her motion. She stumbled her way into the nearest open room, intending to steady herself on the nearest stable object possible. The room was dark, the furniture implied it was some sort of adjacent, unused, lounge. The recliners looked inviting, though one already seemed to be claimed.

Olympe was surprised to spy a familiar face; the artillery sergeant, Remy Beaumont, was passed out in a drunken slumber, in a scandalous state of undress. The only thing preserving his modesty was a table sheet, positioned strategically over his lower body. Olympe could only assume that Sergeant Beaumont had spent the rest of the night in the amorous company of another woman. Whoever she was, she was gone and Remy now slept alone, twisted and bent on cushioned lounger. Olympe could only sniff, rather dismissively. If any of her brothers saw this soldier in such a compromising state, he would be reprimanded. Intoxication, indecent behaviour unfitting a soldier and dereliction of discipline. Not to mention the sorry state of his uniform. His was once pristine uniform jacket had been carelessly discarded on the floor. It was different from Manuel's, she noticed. Remy's uniform was a solid naval blue, lined with flashes of red and white. The polished buttons littered in the faint light of still burning candles. Nearby, the black and yellow lined camp also lay discarded on top of a pile of his red birches and white calf height coverings. As silently as possible, Olympe collected the uniform from the floor, intending to toss it onto the nearest stand. Her brothers took pride in their uniforms, they would have never tolerated such insult. The birches already had unsightly creases in them. No doubt the sergeant would be gripped on his first morning parade for such poor presentation of dress. The coat had not been as heavy as her brother's officer overcoat. But it was made of a fine material; Olympe truly admired the buttons, they glittered like gold. At least the sergeant had done something right.

Perhaps it was the slight intoxication of alcohol; in a moment of giddiness, Olympe slipped out of the private suite, taking the uniform with her. Her first intention had been to hide it. She could only imagine the panic the sergeant would be in when he finally awoke to find his uniform missing. It would teach him a much-needed lesson in personal diligence. Olympe only went a few doors down the hall, finding an empty guest chamber that would be perfect for her little game. She took the cap first, intending on throwing it onto one of the nearby wall mantles, just out of reach of most average sized men. Remy would need a stool of some sorts if he tried to reach it. The mere thought made her grin.

But she stopped when she caught side of a large mirror, secured to the wall. Already afflicted with notions of silliness, Olympe slipped the military cap on. As expected, it was far too big for her. In her reflection, she could see how it obscured a portion of her face. She barely recognised herself and that was only with an oversized cap on. Perhaps Manuel was right; she could masquerade as a man. It was an amusing thought at the time, perhaps she could even make a game of it. See how long it took to be outed. What was the worst that could happen? She would be chastised and returned to her family with a slight scolding. Hardly any consequence…

In the end, she didn't know why she did it. Perhaps it was a moment of madness. A flicker of foolishness. But a torrent of temptation grabbed her.

Olympe took the uniform. And ran.

* * *

A/N – anyone else think Olympe's sisters are mean? I was trying to go for mean. I know there is a lot to take in this chapter, it's mostly just introducing you to Olympe and setting up the background. Next chapter shall go more into the story! Rate and review please! I need more to work with than just 'update please'. Do people like the story? How are the characters presented? How have you received them? My goal here was to not present Olympe as a likeable character right away, but perhaps through adversity, things may change, for you the readers and for her as a character. Some of you may be wondering, why have I read this, what does it have to do with last of the Mohicans? Well, be patient! All will be revealed in the next chapter!

Next chapter introduces Magua to the story ! Yes it is another Magua x OC story ! (I love the guy!)

Rate and review!


	2. The Wily Fox

A/N – to clarify, I have referenced the word 'negro' in this chapter purely for historical and fictional purposes. I do not any way intend to cause any offense. I also do not condone, support and defend slavery of any race, religion or gender (okay, legal disclaimer stuff done).

Thank you to Lacontreras for your review! Puffgirl, you too!

This is a slow chapter, things get more interesting later on!

* * *

Late February, 1757

Fort Carillon, New York, America.

Beware of an old man in a profession where men usually die young. Louis-Gaston de Montcalm could think of no better words coming to mind as he eyed the seasoned savage who stood before him. Though he would never admit it, he felt wary, cagey even. He had been instructed by his father to escort the chief to the general's personal quarters and wait for his arrival. Truthfully, Gaston found the task entirely disagreeable. Even though the French employed numerous natives in their service -coaxing them with promises of trade and trinkets- Gaston found their presence utterly unpleasant. Particularly this one; the Huron who stood before him. He recalled the redskin's name was Magua, or something along those lines. It was a rough, guttural name, it matched him perfectly. Gaston avoided using it when possible. Some of the officers had simply began referring to him as The Wily Fox. A title which was well earned; the warrior was known for his cunning and veracious temperament. Though his father protested time and again the natives were their allies, Gaston held them all equally in discontent. He still remembered his first battle with them serving on his flanks. Their wretched screaming ringing in his ears; like beasts they launched themselves into the fray of battle, with no battle formation or organisation. They simply advanced and overwhelmed the stationary British soldiers. From his mount, Gaston watched on as the savages wrecked bloody havoc on the frontline. When the lull of battle took hold, the devils partook in morbid trophy taking. Corpses were robbed and mutilated. The sight had sickened him. One warrior had even dared to approach Gaston, brandishing a fresh, bloody scalp; Gaston wanted to shoot the fiend in his smug, grinning face. By some miracle of God, he had stayed his hand and turned away from the gruesome display.

War was best left to civilised men; there were certain rules, traditions which aught to be upheld. How could savages, with no sense of honour, dare to think they could fight beside him as an equal?

Reminding himself of the vicious horrors the Hurons were capable of inflicting, Gaston began to scrutinize the War Chief with suspicion. At first glance, he estimated the wiry looking Huron was at least ten years older than him, taking him into his thirties. It was his face which created the impression. The angular planes of his leathery features were weathered, yet still set firm in an expression of stoic readiness; his was the face of a veteran. He had a tall build; though Gaston hated to admit it, but the Huron was most certainly taller than him. The red dyed roach -adorned with one stray feather- added an additional couple of inches. The rest of his attire was equally outlandish to Gaston. The Huron wore a pair of traditional buckskins, decoratively beaded with fine, bright detail. The dark colouration matched that of his winter moccasins. Numerous strings of beads were strung around his neck and upper arms, which were fixed in place by bands of engraved silver. No doubt trinkets and tokens he had acquired through his exploits. Slung over one arm was his rifle whilst his tomahawk rested in the crook of his exposed elbow. Despite the luxury of a large inverted bear skin pelt slung around his body and back, the Huron had the audacity to have his entire torso utterly exposed, with no shirt or any other decent covering. Magua must have sensed Gaston's scathing scrutiny; he daringly met his gaze, as if challenging the eldest son of de Montcalm. Under their intensity, Gaston grudgingly looked away. Staring into the Huron's dead eyes was like staring into the abyss of Hell. The longer he held the gaze, the deeper he feared he'd be pulled in.

Neither said a word to each other. They simply waited in tense silence. From the corner of his eye, Gaston watched as Magua surveyed the room -as he always did-. Even though he had been in Montcalm's personal quarters many times before, Magua still studied its content with avid detail. The general often moved from fort to fort, doing inspections and briefing his men on recent updates. He only took a select few items with him when he travelled; Magua could only assume these were de Montcalm's most reassured luxuries. A crystal tumbler set was always present, with a bottle of fine cognac waiting. The blend was dry and powerful, overwhelming to some. De Montcalm always liked to finish his tiresome days with a healthy sig before an evening meal. And he would only eat his meals off the finest porcelain china. Magua eyed the ceramic floral place setting at the desk, scoffing at such feminine designs. Such delicate looking things were best favoured by women, not men of war.

But something else on the desk caught Magau's eye. It always did. De Montcalm had a string of framed, miniature paintings lined up meticulously on the side of his desk, though some were oddly face down. But it was the painting in the largest frame which always held most of his attention. From the position of the frame -first and foremost, on the centre edge of the desk- Magua could only assume the woman was Montcalm's wife and mother of his children, given there were three young girls painted within her maternal embrace. She was admittedly a beautiful woman, with dark, bewitching eyes. Her hair, however, was a peculiar mass of white curls; littered with pearls. Magua noticed many of French sported this queer look, though he never thought much of it. None the less, he continued to admire the moderate painting. Despite the obvious dissimilarities, the old soul could not help by reminisce about his own wife and children, now absent from his life. He had kept no tokens of their existence; the pain of remembrance was too great.

Despite his innocent musings, Magua's close assessments seemed to have caused offense.

As General de Montcalm opened the door to his quarters, Gaston advanced upon Magua, baring his teeth in a vicious snarl, "Avert your eyes, heathen. That is my mother you are leering at."

Magua cast a scathing glare over his shoulder though his expression betrayed nothing. Instead, his directed his gaze to that of the elder de Montcalm, who seemed somewhat bemused with his son.

"Gaston, there is no need for such hostiles. Magua is our friend. Nay, he is our brother. We welcome him with open arms."

Yet the very thought sickened the young man. "You may break bread and share wine with this savage but I-"

"Gaston!" The sheer volume of his father's tone silenced any further comments. He didn't even look at his son when he began issuing orders from the cover of his room divider. "You are dismissed. Ensure the guards are on their rounds and issue orders for troops to mobilise when our reinforcements arrive."

Though somewhat placated, Gaston yielded. "Yes, General."

Despite the degree of familiarity his father used at times, he still expected absolute professionalism from his subordinates, even if they were his own sons. In the presence of others, certain expectations were to be held.

But despite his father's strict instructions, Gaston once again approached the Huron. In a hushed, but harsh tone, he intended to make his opinion known. "Listen and listen well, red man. You are no brother of mine."

Magua did not waver. He was not easily intimidated, and his unhunched posture showed it. "Paleface pup took words out of Magua's mouth."

Marquis de Montcalm returned to them, having discarded his military overcoat and jacket. He looked more comfortable now, clad only in his linen, ruffled blouse and winter thick birches. The vicious exchange had apparently escaped his ear. He regarded his still present son with an expression of vexation and shooed him away, rather firmly. "I said you were dismissed. You know I hate to repeat my orders."

The sulking, young man did not answer, perhaps fearing his tone would reflect all too clearly the slight frustration he harboured. Instead, he popped a stiff salute and promptly marched out, closing the door as he did so. Gaston may have inherited his father's charismatic zealous for conflict but he mostly did not garner de Montcalm's delicate art of finesse. Magua had watched the icy exchange in silence, as he always did. He was always watching. He observed the palefaces whenever he could, hoping to gauge their behaviour and perhaps, in time, predict it. But sometimes he found the white man to be as fickle as the water flowing through the great rivers; their moods and mind forever shifting. Magua learnt long ago not to take anything at face value, especially when dealing with the accursed pale race. Though he had to admit, de Montcalm was one of the more trustworthy men he had encountered, even if -at times- the pale eyed general spoke with the two tongues of the serpent.

The General made his way to the cognac and poured a generous serving, "Do forgive my son. Truly I thought I taught him better. This damned war has changed him." Out of politeness, he offered Magua a glass, knowing it would be declined.

The Huron chief had not touched the white man's firewater since his time in service to the British. And he swore he would never touch it again. The very thought invoked memories of pain and humiliation. His flesh whipped raw and bloody; it burned like hellish flames, just like whisky when it hit the back of his throat.

Magua tried to distract himself, before the thoughts grew too heavy, "War changes many."

"Ah, it's sad but true. I was once young and handsome. And now…well." De Montcalm's attempt was humour was only met with silence. The general looked over the rim of his cognac crustal and regarded Magua's stoic expression with a keen eye. De Montcalm was not the only one who noticed subtle ticks. "But I sense you are not here to exchange pleasantries and merriment, my friend."

Magua's eyes narrowed. So, the old General could be a wily fox too. "French calls themselves Magua's brothers, yet no brother of Hurons would delay war and deny Magua that which is rightly his."

"Magua, you must understand…" de Montcalm sat himself behind at his desk, waiting for his meal to arrive shortly. "This is winter has been particularly harsh on our soldiers; even the British have dug in till spring. And they are used to bad weather!"

The General's timing was impeccable; a soft knock at the door announced the arrival of his personal attendant, carrying his meal serving on a prepared platter. The dark coloration of his skin ascertained his mixed heritage. The boy was no more than an adolescent, but he wasn't a servant; he was a slave. Such a sight was not uncommon, especially amongst the French officers. There was no point trying to discourage de Montcalm and his men from the practice. The luxury of ownership was a norm; Magua had seen many slaves before, the sight was nothing new. Judging from the clean clothes and the boy's unfrighten nature, the slave was moderately well cared by the general. Magua had seen others in similar situations who were far worse. Many tribes took slaves and captives, including the Hurons. It was simply an unpleasant fact of life. But Magua did scoff; despite their enslavement and use of the Negro people, the French preached piously against white captive taking, claiming it was barbaric and indecent, an affront before their God. Yet again the pale faces spoke with twisted tongues. They would gladly make slaves of others, yet cower at the thought of their own subservience.

From Magua's past experiences, he deducted palefaces made poor slaves anyway. Many were utterly useless at the essentials; like children, a white captive had to be shown the simplest of tasks; tanning an animal hide, erecting a longhouse – some didn't even know how to prepare rabbits for roasting. Their maker had made them flawed and weak, lazy and idle. No wonder they favoured negro slaves. It spared their indolence. But -Magua noted- De Montcalm was cunning, he chose a rather young boy to instruct and train. By the time the child slave reached adulthood, his servile life would be all he'd ever know. Chances are he'd never run away. Never seek freedom.

And for that, Magua pitied him.

"Trust me, Magua. I assure you, when Spring comes, we will be more than ready to win this war." De Montcalm readied himself for his meal, dismissing the black child with a well-practiced gesture. He stabbed his silver utensil into the succulent meat joint, savouring its tenderness. "As we speak, our enforcements are on the move. They should arrive any day now, if they make good time."

The Huron chief frowned at this news. It was not exactly what he wanted to hear. More palefaces. More trespassers on his fathers' ancestral lands. He had hoped this war would depopulate the white infestation. Yet where one dies, five more seem to spawn to take this place. Their numbers seemed never-ending, whereas Magua's tribe was slowly -but surely- dwindling. Trade with the whites was unfair and biased; rifles and gunpowder was in greater demand, yet their cost was greater than their worth. A beaver pelt was more than enough for a rifle, now the price had been inflated to three. But without rifles, Huron could not hunt for their families. The game in the forest was becoming more scarce; his warriors continued to face great danger as they encroached further into enemy territories. They had only survived this winter on the goodwill of the French; next winter may not be as favourable. It all depended on the changing moods of the palefaces. Magua had a duty to his people, he had to ensure the French kept their word. Even if it meant living amongst them, just to keep an eye on their activities.

"Magua will stay at fort for the rest of the winter." He resisted the urge to smirk when de Montcalm nearly choked on his supper. "Does this displease you, _brother_?"

The general gulped his drink to clear his throat. Schooling his expression, he assumed an air of indifference, though the tense tick in his jaw implied different. "Of course not, my friend. I would be honoured to house one of the mighty Hurons great chiefs. Please, make yourself at home."

His answer seemed to have been satisfactory; Magua left de Montcalm to finish his meal in peace. The general had even been generous enough to offer Magua a private room in the fort's inner fortifications, but Magua refused. He did not like the enclosing walls of the wooden camp; he felt like a fox, trapped in a tightened snare. He was born in the forest, so he would sleep in the forest. And perhaps, one day, he would die in the forest. The circle of nature was a source of comfort; where many feared death, true warriors embraced it like an old friend. But this winter would not claim Magua; the worst of the winter was drawing it to an end. Soon spring would come. Making a camp of his own within the cover of the forest, just within sight of the fort Magua watched and waited as the world went by. Every morning, he would greet the sun with prayer and thanks. Winter was a time of hardship, it humbled even great chiefs, reminding them that even they are but mortal men.

Perched in his usual spot along the trail, Magua smoked his tobacco in front of a small fire, mulling over his recent actions as he watched the coming and goings of the fort from afar. Though he would have preferred to be with his people, he felt confident they were -for the time being- safe from danger. Their enemies were many, but winter was surprisingly a time of peace, even between warring tribes. Travel through the snow was difficult and, unless necessary, was avoided. Even the greatest hunter could not avoid tracks in snow. The white man didn't even bother to hide his tracks. The trail leading to the fort was marred with foot imprints and disturbances in the snow. The French warriors moved like a loud, great mass. They thundered through the forest with drums, with commanders hollered commands and orders. Magua heard the advancing troops before he even saw them. The commanding officer, a bolstering capitaine, was especially loud, numbering the marching pace as they advanced towards the fort.

The officer, mounted on a fair stallion battling its shivering legs through the snow, sighted Magua at his makeshift camp. He instantly cast him a withering look. Magua returned it. It was a look he'd often seen thrown his way, by soldiers and officers alike. Despite de Montcalm's impassioned assurances, Magua was no more welcomed amongst their ranks than he was welcomed amongst the Seneca or Mohicans. Magua quickly shrugged off the officer's distain. His attention was drawn elsewhere – to a figure trailing behind the rest.

One soldier seemed to have lagged far behind the column of blue coats, struggling on the uneven snow; his haggard breaths visible in the cold, freezing air. His absence did not go unnoticed; the officer in command cantered his horse around and hollered at him, "Sergeant, what in the name of God are you doing breaking ranks? You should remain by your officer's side when marching."

"I thought I'd better cover the rear, Capitaine Rousseau. Keeping a look out." The young man's shrill voice echoed over the frozen trail. He hastened towards the officer, taking advantage of the halted party. Perhaps he had merely loitered his pace and now fraught to catch up.

The Capitaine rounded his horse, "We're safe here, Sergeant. This is French controlled territory."

"there is no excuse for negligence or complacency, sir. You never know how treacherous those British swine can be." As if proving his point, the blue coated soldier unslung his rifle whilst still trying to ease his labouring breaths. He then gestured to the fort, seeking the relief of shelter. "Until our French flag flies above our heads, we are never safe."

Capitaine Rousseau paused for a moment, as if taken back by his words. Slight admiration bled into his tone, though he attempted to hide it. "Duly noted, sergeant-?"

"Beaumont, sir." The Sergeant adjusted his frost covered cap, peeking below its visage before quickly looking away. He missed the Capitaine's look of peculiarity and instead focused on the tantalizing glow of a nearby fire - and the figure sitting beside it. Upon sighting Magua -clad in his bearskin pelt-, Sergeant Beaumont instantly pointed his rifle in fright, obvious taken by the Huron's fiendish appearance, red roach and all. "Dear Lord!"

Capitaine Rousseau's horse reared at the sudden violate action, almost throwing the officer off his saddle. The beast was only calmed by the soothing hush of his rider. "At ease, Sergeant! At ease!" He gestured for the young, rash man to lower his weapon. "That man is one of our scouts. Do not shoot!"

"That is a man?" Beaumont seemed bewildered at the sight of the wild man sat by the fire. His voice sounded almost breathless. "He looks more like a beast."

Rousseau nodded, clearly understanding the young man's apparent fear. "Ah, I take it it's your first posting in these colonies? Take a good look, Sergeant. He's a Huron Indian. A savage redskin. But don't let the General hear you saying that. Tends to upset them for some reason"

Magua spat at the ground aside him, subtly displaying his distaste for their words. They spoke their words so brazenly, they obviously thought he could not understand them. Capitaine Rousseau did not look in the least bit apologetic. Instead, he gently nudged his horse forward, taking up the command position once more.

The red man's gesture was not lost on the lingering Sergeant Beaumont. Clearly unimpressed, a grimace tugged at the portion of his exposed features but Magua's expression offered no apology. When the pale face did not initially move, Magua slowly stood, taking a menacing step forward. It sent the Sergeant skittering back, much to Magua's amusement. He openly laughed as Beaumont scurried to catch up once more with the arriving blue column soldiers. Magua's dark eyes followed them until marched through the mouth of the fort.

French or British; all white men were the same. They looked down on Magua.

Magua spat on the frozen ground again; the bitter tang of discernment tasted too foul for his content. He left the area instantly, seeking to purge himself of the encounter. He entered the deeper recesses of the forest, walking aimlessly, without a purpose. He did not return till early the next day.

* * *

The next day...

The fort was a hive of activity. The reinforcements coming to relieve the prior troops were warmly welcomed. Soon General de Montcalm and his men would be marching off to a new fort and begin preparations for the next phase of the war. The officers were hopeful, so far they had a string of victories over the British. If the tide of war continued to favour the French, the war would be over sooner than expected. The reinforcements were cutting around the fort, getting to grips with the patrols, procedures and daily maintenance of the fort. Four new bastions had been built to accommodate the growing size of the fort, though it was not the most strategic fort given its sheer size and possible weakness against direct canon fire. For the time being, it was being used as a gathering point for French forces to weather the passing winter.

An officer called out to one of the passing patrols. "Sergeant Beaumont, front and centre!"

The Sergeant quickly broke from the leading rank and was lead into the officers' main tent, though he seemed reluctant at first to follow.

Capitaine Rousseau was there to greet him as the pair entered the Lieutenant General's command post. "General de Montcalm, this was the sergeant I was telling you about."

General de Montcalm, sat the main table, paused his work. Numerous maps and charts were spread across the table surface, with various annotations and markers made. "Ah. Captaine Rousseau says you're a diligent man. I could use someone like you in my own detachment"

Beaumont popped a timid, but firm salute. "T-thank you, Lieutenant-General." The young man seemed humble, if not slightly bashful. He kept his head respectfully low, he gaze affixed to the ground.

Major Louis-Gaston de Montcalm, standing to the right of his father, couldn't help but notice Beaumont's unintentional offense. He was willing to give the young, inexperienced man a chance to correct himself, but he had yet to do so. "Sergeant, you are in the presence of officers!" he barked "Have some respect and remove your cap!"

But the soldier seemed to hesitate, perhaps startled by Major de Montcalm's abrupt order. Some watched with some sympathy. The young man was visibly shaking, perhaps still frozen from the freezing snow which covered his coat and caked his boots. His hand rested on his cap, but he made no immediate move to take it off. His fingers stabbed desperately into its velvet material but he would not take it off. Perhaps being before so many important officers had scared him stiff. This was not General de Montcalm main base of operations; many were surprised when he rerouted his troops here for the winter. Needless to say, there were a few left stunned by his presence at the fort at first. Fort Carillion did not have the most advantageous positioning of the French fort, but with its heavy fortifications, it settled as a winter shelter.

Gaston de Montcalm, however, was not empathetic. A slight to his father was a slight to him. "Remove your cap, Sergeant! Or lose your rank!"

"Montcalm!" An ominous voice broke the awkwardness of the gathering, stealing the attention away from the quaking sergeant. It was loud and portentous, like thunder.

General de Montcalm rose from his seat at the desk, surprised by the sudden intrusion. "Magua?"

He wondered where the Huron had got to over the past recent days. Patrolmen had said his makeshift camp had been abandoned for some time. Yet now he stood before de Montcalm and his officers, unapologetic at his rather abrupt intrusion.

Gaston was equally bemused. "What is the meaning of this? You were not invited in, redskin!"

Yet despite his harsh words, he was ignored. Magua simply marched forward towards the main table, shouldering Sergeant Beaumont out of the way. "Magua sighted Seneca scouts"

General de Montcalm's eyes darkened with seriousness. "Seneca? They are allied with the British, yes?"

"What on earth are they doing so close to our borders?" Capitaine Rousseau thought aloud.

Other officers chimed in, offering their opinion in a hectic mutter.

"Perhaps they are merely passing through."

"Or perhaps they are spying on us. There could be British soldiers trailing not too far behind. General, we cannot let this go uninvestigated."

De Montcalm did not hesitate; he turned to the Huron chief, "I agree. Magua, will you be able to track them?"

The Huron replied with a stoic nod, turning to leave without a formal dismissal.

Until a familiar voice spoke. "General, allow me to accompany him." Sergeant Beaumont stepped forward, though still kept his gaze respectfully to the ground.

Officer and soldiers alike paused as the sudden bravery of the sergeant (or at least what they assumed was bravery.) Some had looks of dubious arresting confidence, whilst looked more belated than productive.

The young man seemed stumped for a moment, as if trying to think of an answer himself. "If there are indeed British forces travelling with these Seneca, I will be able to better identify their military force than the scout. It would give us a more accurate idea."

Capitaine Rousseau hesitated, torn between reprimanding the young man -who still have not removed his cap- and supporting him. Though somewhat foolish, he had a point. In the heat of the moment, he decided "The sergeant makes a fair point, General."

"Blackhairs will slow Magua down."

He was clearly referring to Beaumont's low tied dark hair, but the sergeant did not falter at the nickname, daresay he even used it. He snapped back at the Huron with an urgent hiss, "Blackhairs will keep up!"

Blue eyes flashed from underneath his cap taking Magua aback for a moment. At a glance, the sergeant seemed much younger than Magua originally thought. This only furthered his vexation; he did not need an inexperienced paleface following him through the forest like some lost mongrel. This ploy required stealth and subtly. Beaumont had already proved on the trail he had none of these traits.

But de Montcalm had come to a choice. "Very well. Track this Seneca party, observe British movements -if any- but do not engage. We do not have the soldiers nor the ammunitions to waste on a dog fight." He directed his instructions more to Sergeant Beaumont than Magua.

When Magua made a move to protest, de Montcalm silenced him with a veiled flattery. "You are a trusted and dear friend, Magua. I would hate for you to lose your scalp to a Seneca knife."

Magua cast a scathing glare aside of Sergeant Beaumont, looking seemingly unimpressed. "If we are caught because of Blackhairs, Magua will not be only one losing scalp."

The fear on Beaumont's face was evident. Nonetheless, he quickly fled the tent, saluting once more the Lieutenant General and attending officers

Capitaine Rousseau followed soon after, calling out to him. "Sergeant Beaumont. Wait."

Beaumont paused, half way through prepping his kit. His rifle only partially slung in proper position; gradually it was slipping out of his icy grasp. But Beaumont acknowledged his superior with a respectful nod, looking attentive, if not slightly flustered. "Capitaine."

Capitaine Rousseau eyed the rifle in his possession, looking somewhat unconvinced with its performance. "Go to the storeman, instruct them to issue you with a pistol under my name."

"But, sir! A pistol is only fit for an officer."

The capitaine chuckled. Despite Beaumont's rank, he seemed so innocent and childish. Most assuredly his rank had been bought by a wealthy relative. But Rousseau liked him; perhaps with time and some mentoring, the young man would become a productive subordinate. "With enemies all around you, sergeant"- Rousseau hawk like eyes drifted to Magua lingering nearby- "You need all the protection you can get. Have it returned when you come back."

The young man finally raised his head, meeting his gaze. "Thank you, Capitaine"

Rousseau watched Beamount rush off to the stores; he was slightly taken back. The sergeant had a fetching pair of blue eyes; they looked familiar but he couldn't quite place them. Something about Beaumont was conversant, and yet, not. It was a perplexing sensation, one Capitaine Rousseau was not accustomed to. Shaking off the uncomfortable sensation, Rousseau directed his gaze back to the Huron lurking nearby.

He was abrupt and abrasive when calling him over. "Scout. A word."

Magua, at first, did not move from his position. It was as if he was actively defying Rousseau, making some sort of point. In doing so, the Capitaine was forced to approach him instead. He then berated himself for looking weak. Letting the indigitation seethe in his tone, he spoke "I expect Sergeant Beaumont to return safely to this fort, alive and well. Is that understood? I have already lost good men; I will not lose another."

The Huron stared at him for some time, even leaning in ever so slightly. It was unnerving to say the least but Rousseau remained stood rigid. In this battle of wills, he could not lose. It was no lie, he did not trust this Huron. Several men had died suspiciously when he was in the near vicinity. Rousseau had no doubt he was somehow involved. Filthy, red skinned savages. He had half a mind to accompany Sergeant Beaumont on this trek but knew it would not be proper procedure. Officers did not go galivanting off into the wilderness, chasing heathens and devils. If there was a British patrol and he was captured, he could be ransomed and returned to France in disgrace.

"What is this look in your eye Magua sees, Capitaine? Magua has not seen it before." The Huron's rough voice drew his attention, though the words meaning were lost on him.

Rousseau ignored his comments, "If you don't come back with Sergeant Beaumont, don't bother coming back at all."

With that, the hawk eyed Capitaine marched off, leaving Magua to wait -impatiently- for Sergeant Beaumont to return from stores.

* * *

The pair left the fort by noon, when the sun was at its peak. Neverhteless, the temperature was still freezing.

Magua has discarded his thick bearskin and opted for a tunic like shirt. He carried little else than his weapons, intending on travelling light, vying for speed. But the bumbling sergeant slowed him down -as he had protested. Magua lost count of the number of times Beaumont stumbled; he was an utterly clumsy fool, tripping over his own feet and heavy kit.

Amongst Magua's people, a warrior rose through the ranks due to ability and skill, experience and victories. But Magua did not see the same system in the French army. He had seen fools become leaders purely on the pedigree of their birth; he had heard the Beaumont name before and wondered if perhaps this sergeant only received his rank because of it. The man clearly had no basic tracking or hunting skills, or even soldier skills for that matter. He was clearly unfit to travel such long, traversing distances. At times he would insist on stopping for a rest, greedily drink from streams, even taking a mouthful of snow just to quench his exhaustion. But Magua never stopped, he continued, letting Beaumont lout behind. He soon came running when the Huron went too far out of sight. This continued for what seemed like hours. Magua never faltered.

Beaumont must have been thirsty again, his voice sounded dry like a husk as he spoke. "We have been walking for hours. Where exactly did you see this Seneca?"

Magua did not bother responding to him. He remained focused on the coming trail. He knew what he saw; a Senca scout had been through the territory, skulking through the trees and underbrush. Magua had watched from afar for some time before he was swallowed up amongst the tree line. But where there was one, there was sure to be many more, possibly even a war party. But why? This was Huron land, lands which had been hard won through war and bloodshed. A Seneca scouting party could be interpreted as a declaration of war. But what was their goal? The only thing of importance Magua could think of was the river crossing. When the waters were frozen in winter, the narrow gap formed a thick bridge of ice, essentially creating a gateway for the adjacent tribes, the Mohawks, Abenaki and Oneida. Perhaps the Seneca and Mohawk were meeting, reaffirming allegiances. Either way, it could prove disadvantageous to both the Hurons and the French. Magua kept scanning the landscape, waiting for an unnatural shape to break the landscape. The Seneca scout Magua had spotted looked like a young man, perhaps no longer than what he assumed Beaumont was aged. Perhaps if he subdued the young man he could force some answers out of him.

He was so focused on his inner musings, Magua almost missed more of Beaumont's prominent nagging. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Whole forest is listening to you, Blackhairs." Magua grumbled, the hackles on his neck raising. "Which means Seneca are listening too."

He suddenly came to a stop, crouching low to the ground, rifle at the ready.

"What are you-"

Magua slapped his hand over the Sergeant's mouth, silencing him.

Cantering his head forward, his gaze was fixed on the clearing before them. Sure enough, after a moment of anxious waiting, a figure rose of cover. Magua crouched lower to the floor, pulling Beaumont to the dirt floor with him. The Huron recognised his enemy almost instantly; he was most definitely a Seneca brave. The feathered headpiece and tribal body markings confirmed it. He seemed to be making camp, settling his weapons and applies down on the ground. It was the perfect moment to strike.

Like a master instructing his dog, Magua gestured for Beaumont to remain where he was, in silence. Magua, on the other hand, would advance on the enemy. The Sergeant shook his head but Magua did not heed him. Crawling along the forest floor, he edged closer, inch by inch, drawing his tomahawk.

"Look out!" A shot was fired. A Seneca warrior tumbled away from, clutching his arm in pain. Blood seeped from the small flesh wound. The warrior lifted his gaze to Beaumont, his lips pulled back in snarl, baring his head. It was a savage expression, promising retribution. The sergeant seemed to instantly regret the moment of panicked folly, as soon as he scrambled for cover multiple shots rang out, fired in his direction. Despite the Sergeant's foolishness and poor shooting, it distracted the enemy long enough for Magua to shift away from his previous position.

Taking cover behind the treeline, finally Magua returned fire, though he cursed fiercely when he spotted the useless sergeant cowering nearby. Instead of firing back, he had dropped the pistol where he last stood and now sat curled up for protection behind a large trunk of a tree. As Magua had thought, the Sergeant was more trouble than assistance. The sooner Beaumont was out of the way, the sooner Magua could confront their attackers on an even field. He gestured wildly at the white idiot, his face contorted with directed aggression. Over the sounds of flying bullets, he shouted repeated, "Run, Blackhairs. Run fast!" until finally, on shaky legs, Beaumont staggered to his feet and made a move.

A shot rang out.

It striking the tree close beside the young Frenchman's head, clicking the side of his cap. The wood splintered and cracked, sending fragments flying.

Sergeant Beaumont fell to the ground with a heavy thud; lifeless.

* * *

A/N – I have so much planned for this story and it's really annoying because all the exciting stuff happens in the later chapters! So stay tuned! Rate and review! I need your opinions!

This is going to be a slow building story, there is actually a lot I have planned, I don't want to rush through the story, so bare with me and stay tuned!

(yes, Sergeant Beaumont is Oylmpe! I know it's not entirely clear but wait out! )


	3. Seneca Sighting

A/N – I have a bit planned for this story, but it does take some time to build up. Stay tuned! This is more a MaguaxOC story, though the usual cast does show up in later chapters (plus some of my characters.) Sorry for the delay, I have some time now and the other stories (plus another) is going to be uploaded soon

The last thing Olympe remembered was fleeing from those ghastly Seneca devils. Their terrible shrieking resounding throughout the forest like disembodied wails. Stray musket rounds rang out, splintering tree trunks and kicking up dirt; one even shot passed her, its destructive path tearing through the air at pheromonal speed. Olympe was in such a state of frightened flight, she had even acknowledge the pain coursing from her head. The only thing she vaguely recalled was being continuously jostled to her feet, her balance unsteady and lopsided as she was roughly pulled along the wooden trail. Where were they going? She didn't know. In her dazed state, she merely followed, stumbling and staggering as she went. Diving through a ticket of saplings, whenever her footing faltered, she was stringently righted. The hellish hollering was growing distant; present, but distant. Yet Olympe took no immediate relief.

A warm, sticky substance had begun to descend from her temple. Accompanying the odd sensation was an uncomfortable yet persistent, sharp throb. When Olympe touched the tender area -much to her horror- she found speckles of blood dotting the tips of her fingers. Realisation slowly sank in; she was injured. Worse, she was bleeding. The mere thought sent her spiralling into disorientated lucidity. But still the unrelenting grasp on her shoulder persisted; Olympe was dragged -at speed- across uneven terrain, her boots scuffing the forest floor. The perusing Seneca were no longer in view but still all Olympe was focused was the blood staining her delicate fingers. She wasn't sure how grievous the wound, but still, she was wounded!

 _Oh, Olympe. Look at what you've got yourself into._ She thought despairingly. _You've about to die in a foreign land, surrounded by godless, heathen savages. What's worse, you'll be buried as a soldier in some half-hearted dug grave._

The sheltered life she had lived protected her from most of the dangers of life; she'd never broken a bone or been afflicted with crippling disease. She'd never so much as scuffed her knee and now -for all she knew- she had been disfigured.

The very idea sent her into a shrieking frenzy.

What would she be without her beauty? What man would want a spoiled woman for a wife? How could she even look at herself in the mirror with the sight of such ugly scarring glaring back at her in the reflection? She had gambled with her life in pursuit of some frivolous adventure and it could have very well cost her beauty.

Oylmpe blacked once more, her insensible thoughts robbing her of reason. She welcomed it; the blackness. For a brief moment, it was sweet relief. She lost all feeling in her body; the throbbing pain slowly fading into nothingness, as did the inexorable grip dragging her amongst the shrubs and dirt. She silently hoped that the whole misguided adventure was nothing more than a hellish nightmare. She prayed she'd wake up once more in her luxurious bed, in the safety of the chateau, away from savages and war; away from pain and ugliness.

For some time, Olympe merely floated between a state of oblivion, drifting in and out of consciousness for no more than a few seconds at a time. All the exhaustion, all the stress and fatigue had finally overwhelmed her into a placid stupor. She didn't even vaguely acknowledge the gentle rocking motion which seemed to cradle her body.

Only the sound of rushing water finally roused her senses, long enough for her to register her military cap suddenly being snatched from her head. The bright light of the skies blinded her; she squinted her eyes to try and lessen the visual sting. When a large, bronze coloured hand loomed with sight, she quickly scurried back. She only halted when her back collided with a solid edge; a jarring motion quickly followed. Her gloved hands sought out a sturdy hold as the area around her seemed to rock with her rapid movements.

Olympe's eyes darted about in a frantic motion; taking in her situation with haggard alertness. She was in sort of boat; though it seemed more like a primitive hollowed out piece of wood. After a moment, she recognised it was a canoe of some sorts, heading down a section of river which had been left untouched by the winter's ice.

Her heart thundered as she began to panic; she half expected to be set up by Seneca and slaughtered like defenceless woodland prey. she had heard such terrifying tales during her journey to America. Seasoned soldiers spoke of harrowing horrors as if they were a natural occurrence; men being scalped, tortured and burnt beyond recognition. Women and children being carried off into the wilderness, never to see civilisation again. Not even the elderly, sick or lame were spared the strike of a bloody tomahawk. Olympe instinctively reached for a weapon but found the pistol issued to her was gone. She cursed under her breath, believing it had been lost during the commotion. Instinctively, she braced up, waiting for a fatal strike.

But none came.

There was no Seneca looming over her. Just the singular Huron, sitting across from her, glaring in utter vehemence.

Olympe shivered at such a cold-hearted stare. But then she spied her cap, crumpled in Magua's clenching fist.

She snatched it out of his grasp and slammed it onto her head , "What did you think you're doing?!" She tried to keep her voice low, not pitched in the height of fright.

Magua just continued to regard her with a look of utter annoyance, as if she were a disobedient child, "Capitaine told Magua to bring sergeant back alive." He reached once more for her cap, "Magua must look at wound."

"You most certainly will not!" She battered his hand away, silently surprised that she had actually managed to rake his knuckled with her well-aimed strike.

The burly Huron looked at his stricken hand for a moment, anger flash in his eyes. "Beware, Blackhairs. Magua has killed men for less." He reached once more, though wary. One hand was out stretched, whilst the other was clenched, perhaps preparing to retaliate if Olympe struck again.

With a throaty gulp, Olympe decided against it and instead fastened her hands tightly onto the cap, securing its place on her head. "It's fine! It's just a scratch. A bump, I think." The pain was still present, but none the less, muted. It filled her with relief; perhaps it wasn't as bad as she had first panicked.

However, the Huron did not seem overly convinced, not that he seemed exceedingly concerned either. When he showed no little intent of heeding her dismissal, she simply tried to scoot back further, hoping to put more distance between herself and the Huron.

Magua seemed to find her retreat amusing, no doubt taking delight into the paleface's evident distress. "Foolish, weak Blackhairs could die." His eyes lit up with mirth as a smirk tugged at his thin lips, "Even from a scratch."

"I highly doubt that." Olympe tried to hide her awkwardness and avoided his gaze. Instead, she focused on the minutiae details of the canoe; its simplistic painted markings and working of the grain. Anything was more tolerate that the Huron's gaze.

He looked at her the same way her family did; eyes filled with dissatisfaction. Such looks usually left Olympe wilting in a pitiless state. Yet with Magua, this uncultured, boorish savage, it enflamed her. How dare he look at her in such a way, as if she was somehow inferior. She was a proud and privileged daughter of France with the noble blood of de Montcalm flowing through her veins; she did not have to tolerate such silent judgement and ridicule from the likes of anyone; let alone a lowly, reskinned Huron.

The thought spurred her into a flurrying fit, making her feel bold. She swung round to face him, eyes blazing, "Besides, if I am destined to die, then let it be as a soldier of France should! Dressed in full military uniform! Cap and all!"

The outburst must have stunned the Huron; he was silent for a moment, as in internalising her words to fully comprehend them. When he finally formed his opinion, he looked at her with an expression akin to grudging approval - though still masked for obvious exasperation. "Very well, Blackhairs." Magua withdrew his outstretched hand and resumed paddling, becoming more focused on steering the canoe in and out of the intemperate rapids.

But Olympe was inwardly crestfallen. She could not take credit for the bold, honourable words. They were lines she had read in Madame Premoy's autobiography. But they seemed to have done the trick. At least Magua had derailed his focus from her. She found herself once more slumped back, exhausted beyond reason; the sudden movement and rush of adrenaline made her feel lightheaded.

With a ragged sigh, Olympe closed her eyes, trying to ease her aching head. "And stop calling me Blackhairs." She muttered, her thoughts growing more absent, "My name is Beaumont. Sergeant Remy Beaumont!"

Magua watched as the sergeant once more lost consciousness. He shook his head, disgust chasing away what little sense of admiration he had for the troublesome paleface. A warrior should never leave himself so vulnerable; but then again, the Frenchman passed out before Magua was no warrior. He displayed no discipline or bravery, only foolish recklessness and youthful inexperience. Not only had the sergeant endangered both their lives with his irrational actions, but he had then trembled in the face of the enemy, becoming nothing better than a coward. The Seneca dogs instantly ignored him; his scalp would not even be worth counting coup with. Instead, they had directed their war mongering attention on Magua.

At first, when Blackhairs had fallen, Magua simply dismissed him for dead. He had collapsed to the ground so limp and lifelessly, he truly fooled the Huron, as well as the Seneca. In the heat of the moment, fired his musket at the advancing enemy, aiming to break their ranks and find a weak link in their formation. Not all of their numbers had rounded on him; Magua spied some making their way across the ice of the river, leaving the fight to be continued by a few stragglers. It struck the Huron as odd; Seneca were no cowards; why would they spurn a perfect opportunity to kill a much-hated enemy? He was outnumbered, an ideal target.

Magua recalled -with smug pride- sending the bronze skinned Seneca tumbling to the forest floor with a well-placed kick. The young warrior may have had youth and virility on his side but Magua's seasoned experience triumphed.

The thunderous, grey eyed Seneca let out a shriek of frustration, riling himself up for another charge at the Huron. Magua had readied himself, cantering his tomahawk back for a close encounter strike. Yet from the corner of his eye, Magua spied movement; at first he thought a sly Seneca had snuck up on him, but he was wrong. It Blackhairs, slowly rousing. But Magua did not spare him a second thought. Any distraction in battle could prove fatal. He thought if the fool had any sense, he would keep his head down and wait out. A tense standoff followed. The Seneca brave squaring off with Magua. Neither made the first move, though limbs were limbered up ready. Both knew that in the heat of battle, the first move could easily decide the outcome of the dog fight. Only at the beckoning of his comrades did the Seneca warrior finally retreat, snatching Beaumont's discarded pistol from the floor before cantering off into the bowels of the forest.

Not quite the invigorating battle Magua expected, but none the less, it was welcomed. Age had seasoned his sense pragmatism; attempting to fight off the Seneca would have ultimately been a foolish endeavour…especially with a useless paleface to worry about.

Once again, Magua's thoughts focused back on the present. He surveyed the sergeant, prone and unconscious -again-. Utterly weak and useless. The Huron decided quite rapidly that he had no respect for him as a warrior – not that he had respect for any white man anyway-. The Huron felt no remorse as he once again jostled the Frenchman awake.

"Come, Blackhairs," roughly, he hauled the sergeant out of the canoe, "We walk."

With a startled floundering, the white man roused, seeming to curse to abrupt wakening. He shattered to his feet, once more fussy over his cap before rounding on Magua, featured pinched tight in annoyance, "How dare you, you oafish- What are you doing?" Owlish blue eyes gawked at the Huron as he busied at the river's edge, submerged to the knee in frigid winter waters.

Magua pointedly ignored the enquiry at first, seeming more focused on labouring with the wooden bulk of the vessel until it successfully began to submerge under the water. Only when it had completely vanished, did Magua finally answer, "Hiding canoe."

"Why?"

Magua gave no verbal answer; he just watched the water for a moment, ensuring the canoe stayed submerged.

A/N - This was going to be a longer chapter but there is just so much, so the next one should follow soon. The relationship between Olympe and Magua will be somewhat different from the other stories, which hopefully you will pick up on as we continue the story. There is a lot of complexity (in my mind) but sometimes I wonder if I get it down on the page. As usual, feedback welcome!


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